


Forever's Gonna Start Tonight

by missbecky



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Everybody Lives, First Time, Fix-It, M/M, Mild Background Roxlin, Past Eggsy/Tilde, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 16:39:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12610944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbecky/pseuds/missbecky
Summary: Since their return to England, Harry has been absent at the new Kingsman distillery, while back in London, Eggsy is alone and miserable. Then he receives an invitation to visit the distillery, and at last he has a chance to see Harry again and talk with him. He tells himself he's ready for their reunion, and he is. Except for the one thing he didn't count on: he isn't alone in his feelings.





	Forever's Gonna Start Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> The contents of Eggsy's dream comes from the alternate ending that might (and should!) have been.
> 
> Title comes from Total Eclipse of the Heart.

There is no royal wedding, though they both try, they really do. 

He and Tilde limp along for four months before they finally accept what they've both known deep down for some time. Four months of living apart, going on stilted dates, setting aside time to sit down and talk about everything, and none of it makes any difference. Eggsy thinks it's darkly hilarious that as Kingsman rises higher from the ashes of its foundations, his own relationship seems to crumble at the same rate. 

In the end though, it’s not the seeds of mistrust and guilt that were planted in Glastonbury that do them in. It’s duty, nothing more, nothing less. Eggsy won’t leave Kingsman behind and move to Sweden to become a pampered prince served by people in powdered wigs, and Tilde needs to return to the country and the people she loves and owes a responsibility to. She's already given up so much to live with him and love him, though he never asked her to. He could never ask her to give up anything more.

It's raining when they say their last good-bye, an official state car waiting outside to take Tilde to Heathrow for her flight back home. They both cry a little and promise to stay in touch, and Eggsy for one intends to keep that promise; he's pretty sure she does, too.

He goes to the pub after that. And then to a different one. And then another, their names and the drinks they serve blurring into one long October night. It's hours before he finally stumbles home to the flat where he's been staying since Poppyland. It's not a bad place, but even after four months he still sometimes gets disoriented when he wakes up in the middle of the night, unable to quite remember where he is at first. He takes one bleary look around and knows he can't stay here alone tonight.

He calls Roxy and pleads with her to come over.

He feels guilty about doing that to her, but not enough to tell her it's okay, he doesn't actually need her to come by. She's been there constantly here for him during this time, consoling him over mugs of tea, pints of beer, mountains of chips. She’s a rock he clings to, crying (sometimes literally) on her shoulder, telling her things he wouldn’t admit to another soul. 

The horrible thing is, though, while Eggsy is grateful as hell for Roxy and her friendship, at the same time he can't help secretly wishing that she was someone else. Someone who would make him a martini for old times' sake. Someone who would stand with him in front of a mirror and ask what he saw. He kind of hates himself for feeling that way, but that's just how it is.

When Roxy arrives she's bearing a bag of greasy chips and an overnight bag for herself. By then Eggsy's already got two drinks poured, so strong even the fumes make his eyes water. He holds one out, thrusting it at her even before she's set her things down. "Cheers, Rox."

Roxy drops her bag to the floor, takes one sip of the drink, grimaces and sets it on the counter.

Eggsy hardly notices. He's too busy trying to stay drunk and feeling sorry for himself.

“Don’t know what I ever expected,” he says later, who the fuck knows how much later. He’s maudlin by then, kept on his feet only by the strength of Roxy’s arm around his waist as she practically hauls him down the hall. “Ain’t no one gonna want to marry me.”

“Oh, Eggsy,” Roxy sighs. She drapes him across his bed, arranging his limbs so he'll be comfortable. His last conscious sight is her standing over him, her ponytail askew, a slightly exasperated look on her face. And he thinks with blurry sadness that he’s gone and fucked this up, too, lost his best friend because he can’t hold either his liquor or his tongue.

But she’s still there in the morning when he slumps down the hall to the kitchen. She’s brewing coffee, still in her pyjamas and slippers, looking tired but ready for another day.

Eggsy scrubs at his eyes; they feel gritty and too dry. He can’t really remember last night, but he has a feeling he said way too much, maybe even did something disastrous. “Hey.”

Roxy gestures to the table. “Sit.”

There's a long scar on her hand, winding up the back of her wrist. It's really only visible in strong light, like this morning. When Poppy bombed the mansion, Roxy had dug herself out of the wreckage, having spent two days huddled in the panic room where she took refuge during the attack. There was no one there to greet her when she finally emerged into fresh air, no police or firemen, nothing but warm rain and piles of rubble. On foot she had made it to the nearest town, where she had acquired a phone and made the call that changed Eggsy’s life.

They’ve been working together ever since then, getting the Kingsman tailor shop back up and running again, tracking down the remaining survivors and staff. It’s not been easy work, made more difficult by the fact that Harry, who is nominally in charge, has elected to stay in Scotland at the new Kingsman distillery.

At first Eggsy had been glad for this. He thought it would actually be better for him and Tilde if Harry wasn’t in the picture, if he wasn’t always _here_. But it turns out the separation has hit him hard. They had such a short time together before Harry went to Scotland, and too many things were happening all at once. They never really did get a chance to sit down and talk, just the two of them.

And there are so many things Eggsy wants to say.

But since Harry left, they haven't talked. It's like Harry decided to neatly cut himself out of Eggsy's life. Or something like that. Eggsy doesn't know what the fuck is going on. All he knows is that he misses Harry like crazy.

“Good news,” Roxy says as she sets the coffee pot down on the table. “Merlin is coming back tomorrow.”

Eggsy brightens up as he gingerly sits in his chair. It'll be good to see Merlin again. It seems like they hardly ever get to visit with him anymore. “Yeah?”

Roxy smiles. “A couple days early.”

Eggsy envies her; he knows perfectly well what that smile means. Since his release from hospital, Merlin has been traveling back and forth between London and the distillery, being gone more often than not. It’s been hard on him, but on Roxy, too.

He waits, hoping she'll go on to say Harry is coming home, too. But of course she doesn't. Because Harry isn't ever coming back. Or so it seems.

He swallows his disappointment and tries to act like he's fine. Hungover and tired, but perfectly fine. "So does this mean they finally got it all going?”

“Apparently,” Roxy says. “Agent Whiskey was there for a little while helping them out, but she’s gone back to Kentucky. According to Merlin they’re as ready as they'll ever be.”

"So that's two outta three," Eggsy muses as he pours himself a cup of coffee. The tailor shop is open again, but for now it remains simply that: a tailor shop. There are no spy activities happening there. These days Kingsman is only a distillery and a tailor, not an international intelligence agency.

“Not much longer though,” Roxy says.

“Yeah.” It’s little more than a sigh. He’s only been to the site in Scotland once, long enough to see that Statesman was throwing money around like it was water. He hadn't stuck around too long, though. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate what they’ve done for what’s left of Kingsman, but thinking about them always leaves a sour taste in his mouth. He’s not sure he’ll ever really like any of them.

He can’t admit that out loud, though. Not to Roxy, at any rate. She’s only seen the best side of them, the ones willing to help out their British cousins, the ones who have spared no expense to get the distillery going, even lending a couple of their own agents at times. 

Roxy doesn’t know about Tequila’s mistrust or the original Whiskey’s betrayal, or what they did to Harry during the year they were virtually holding him a prisoner in solitary confinement. In a fucking padded cell no less. She _does_ know those things of course, but they don’t have the emotional weight they do for Eggsy, always lurking in the back of his mind whenever he thinks about any of the Statesmen.

“I’m sorry,” Roxy says. Which is so not what Eggsy was expecting her to say that he blinks in surprise.

“For what?”

“Harry isn’t coming with him.”

Eggsy just stares.

All these months and he’s never told Roxy about the torch he still carries for Harry, about how wildly his heart was beating in his chest when they hugged in that awful room with the butterflies all over the walls. He should have realised that nothing gets past her; she’s the most observant agent they ever had.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says with a nervous laugh. Like there’s any chance of being able to lie successfully to his best mate.

Roxy just gives him a look, her head slightly tilted.

“Yeah, all right,” Eggsy surrenders. He gets up, his coffee untouched. “Yeah, I want him to come back. Yeah, I miss him. All right?”

“You’re allowed to miss him,” Roxy says. She’s so kind, he doesn’t know what he ever did to deserve her.

Eggsy swallows hard. “I know.”

“Why don’t you go up there?” Roxy suggests.

Appalled, Eggsy starts to shake his head. He’s never heard a worse idea in all his life. But Roxy just goes on, oblivious to his denial. “Until the shop takes over, the distillery is our HQ. Or what passes for one," she concedes. "Anyway, we all need to go out there eventually. I know we don’t have to be physically present for the meetings, but we should know our way around the place. We are, after all, the senior agents. It would look pretty bad if the new ones had to show _us_ around.”

Eggsy stares some more. What the fuck is she on about? Kingsman isn’t ready to recruit new agents. They aren't even using the agents they have left. 

But she is right though about technology meaning they won’t need to be physically at the distillery. Not that there’s much reason for any meetings at all. Unless Merlin is coming back with some surprising news, they won’t be running any missions for another couple months yet.

But still, he’s smart enough to know what Roxy has just done. She’s given him the perfect excuse to make his way to that Scottish distillery. To wander the halls, where he might just “accidentally” run into Harry.

Where they can talk.

The thought scares the shit out of him. He’s not ready for this. But at the same time it’s all he wants. To know once and for all if there is any chance for them. To know if he’s completely off his rocker to keep thinking about Harry, to keep wishing he was here.

“Yeah, all right,” he says. “After Merlin gets back.” He wants to hear how things are going from Merlin himself before he just randomly shows up in Scotland. Could be Merlin will have something to say that he needs to know before he sees Harry again.

Roxy nods. “That sounds good.” She gives him a reassuring smile.

Eggsy takes a deep breath and hopes like hell that she’s right.

****

They meet Merlin at the shop. There might not be any spying going on from here just yet, but the beautiful dining room above the shop has been rebuilt to all the original specs. The walls are still covered in artwork meant to disguise the screen in their midst. The carpet and furnishings are still hideously expensive. The double doors opening onto the room are still carved of heavy wood.

But one significant change has been made. The table that now sits in the middle of the room is in fact round. It has all the same capabilities as the last, the holographic settings, the hidden compartments where someone might hide things, but it is truly a Round Table now. That was one thing Harry had insisted on, and no one had argued.

Merlin is already there when Eggsy and Roxy walk in. He sits at a place halfway down the table, where Percival and Bedivere used to sit. For a moment Eggsy’s throat tightens up as he recalls those past meetings, the way they all used to gather here, some of them physically present, others rendered only in blue hologram. Those days are gone forever and he knows it, but he’ll always mourn them.

“Galahad. Lancelot.” Merlin smiles and rises to his feet. It’s a smooth move, nothing like the graceless lurch he made in the early days when he was still adjusting to the prosthetics. Nowadays though it's often impossible to even tell he lost half his legs to the mine that should have claimed his life.

That’s one thing Eggsy will never forget -- or forgive himself for. It was his fuckup, not finding that mine, being so fucking stupid to step on it in the first place. Merlin had been ready to give his life that Eggsy and Harry might go on and finish the mission, but he hadn’t told them that he had hopes he would survive. And the Statesman ballistic suit had indeed done its work, saving his life from what would have been an instant and very messy death otherwise.

Eggsy still dreams of it sometimes, that diner with the shining stainless steel appliances splattered red with Whiskey’s blood. The electric lasso lying inert on the tile floor. Poppy herself dead behind the counter.

He doesn’t remember how it began, who first looked at who. He does remember the sudden pang of grief stabbing through the adrenaline that still sang through his veins, like a heavy weight suddenly being thrust on his shoulders. He remembers looking around in shock and blinking at the carnage, at the lasso that had come too fucking close to decapitating Harry. He remembers turning to look out the window and seeing the jungle -- and the gap in the foliage where Merlin had stood, singing his last brave song.

In his dreams he always starts crying then, though in reality he thinks it maybe took him a little bit longer to get started. “Oh fuck,” he says, and this really did happen. “Merlin. Harry, Merlin’s gone.”

Harry looks at him then, and it’s like he’s regressed again, gone back to that open younger person he thought he was back in that padded cell. All his hurt and grief are visible on his face, years of friendship erased in a single fiery moment. He turns away, and Eggsy can’t bear it, can’t bear the thought of Harry thinking that he needs to grieve alone. Fuck that whole “shed a tear in private” thing. This is _Merlin._

They end up standing together, and Eggsy is crying, and Harry’s eye glistens with tears, and the dream and the reality get jumbled up here, but somehow they end up in each other’s arms, sometimes still standing (reality) and sometimes on the floor (the dream, mostly), crying for the friend they lost.

And that’s when Merlin drags himself in, hasty tourniquets cinched above what remains of his legs. “What the fuck are you two crying about?” he always says. “I’m the one who lost my legs.”

Of all the shocks he’s received in his life, few have been sweeter.

“Welcome back,” Roxy says as she leads the way into the dining room. She doesn’t do anything so unprofessional as kiss Merlin in front of Eggsy, but it’s clear how happy she is to see him.

“Thank you,” Merlin says, ever the gentleman.

They all sit at the table. Merlin has his clipboard in front of him as always, and there’s tea laid out for three. Eggsy pours himself a cup and stirs in some sugar, making sure not to clink the spoon against the china, the way he was taught.

“I’ll get right to it,” Merlin begins. He taps his clipboard and the painting on the wall dissolves to reveal a picture of the Kingsman distillery. It’s an aerial shot, taken from high enough above to show all the buildings, including the main office. “As you might have guessed from my early arrival, Kingsman Whisky is now ready to begin production.”

Eggsy shares a grin with Roxy. Before all this he didn’t know the first thing about where his liquor came from, nor did he really care. But he started to care when Statesman bought a distillery that had closed its doors as it headed for bankruptcy, its label all but extinct. Since then he's learned a hell of a lot, and he knows just how much work went into taking over the distillery and getting it operational again.

“We’re going to be relying heavily on word of mouth at first,” Merlin says. “Arthur refuses to authorise any kind of advertising budget. The plan is to stock the whisky at the tailor shop, offer it to all our customers whether paying or not, while having the label displayed prominently. Samples will also be available at Lock and Co. and Berry Brothers and Rudd, along with a select few other shops.”

Eggsy nods. Kingsman has always had an agreement with many of those places, even though the other shops never really knew exactly what they were a part of. The Kingsman founders had done their work well, laying the foundation for lasting contracts and business partners at the same time they had been creating their whole “other venture.”

Still, it doesn't seem like a wise move, and Eggsy tries not to look as sceptical as he feels. Kingsman needs to make money, lots of it. And quickly. Even with Statesman’s generous help, getting the tailor shop rebuilt took a lot of Kingsman’s funds. That’s not even taking into account the distillery itself. And Eggsy knows that Harry fully intends to repay the money Statesman provided. He completely agrees with that plan too. No way does he want to be in debt to an agency that outdoes them in almost every regard. Especially when they already owe Statesman far too much.

“There will be tastings offered at Berry Bros,” Merlin says. “And in Edinburgh, Dublin, and Oxford. In time we expect to expand to the rest of Europe, but for now the focus will be on the UK.”

It’s an unspoken rule, Eggsy knows, that Kingsman Whisky will remain on this side of the Atlantic. It wouldn’t do to be in direct competition with their benefactors, after all.

Still, he kinda hopes they do it anyway. One big beautiful _fuck you_ to Statesman.

“The grand re-opening will be a little over a month from now, on December 1st,” Merlin says, “and it will be open to the public, as another way of getting the word out. The hope is that we can tap into some of the holiday market. However, before then, Arthur has asked that you both make time to visit the distillery and familiarise yourself with its operation.”

Eggsy catches his breath. Harry has asked to see him. On work-related pretenses, yeah, but it's better than the nothing that’s been the norm ever since Harry left.

“We can do that,” Roxy says. “When should we go?”

“As soon as you can, I should think,” Merlin says. He gives them each a look, and it’s suddenly all Eggsy can do not to lean forward and ask him how Harry is doing.

“I’ve got a few things I need to take care of first,” Roxy says. “But Eggsy can go right away.”

Startled, he turns toward her, like what the hell is she on about? He feels betrayed, that she wouldn’t go with him. But then he almost instantly changes his mind. If he’s really going to talk to Harry, it’ll be better if he’s there alone. Having Roxy there would be a good excuse if he suddenly needs to get out of there, but her presence could also be too distracting. He and Harry need to sit down alone and talk. This way there won’t be anything else that either of them can use as justification for walking out.

And this way Roxy gets Merlin to herself for a little while. Which, come to think of it, is probably her real reason for volunteering Eggsy to go up there first.

Merlin is watching him, waiting on his answer. So Eggsy nods like it’s no big deal, like his heart isn’t racing at the thought of finally getting to see Harry again. “Sure. Yeah.”

“Good,” Merlin says, and Eggsy wonders just how much he knows. “I’ll let Arthur know.”

****

The distillery is located in central Scotland, on the banks of a loch that looks like it would be achingly cold even in summer. Everyone who worked there when the label was a different name has been allowed to keep their job, and more positions have been created under Statesman's expansion and renovation. The car park is quite full when Eggsy arrives, and he has to walk a fair distance to reach the main doors.

He didn't tell anyone he was coming. None of the people working here now know that their business is a front for an international intelligence agency operating at the highest levels of discretion. In time some of them may prove trustworthy and loyal enough to let them in on the secret, but for now only the titular president and owner knows the truth.

The front foyer is dominated by a huge wooden desk reminiscent of the one at the shop. The name Kingsman is emblazoned on the wall in gold letters, the same font as on the shop window and all their stationery. The woman sitting behind the desk smiles at him ."Can I help you?" she asks.

Eggsy hesitates. He won't be allowed to just go wandering around the halls, but he doesn't want the word to get out that he's here. He knows he's got to see Harry, of course, but he wants to put that off a little while longer.

"I'm Eggsy Unwin," he says with his most winning smile. "I'm from Kingsman tailors? I thought I would have a look around, maybe?"

To his surprise the receptionist smiles back. "Of course," she says. "I just need to see some ID."

Eggsy blinks, still a little disbelieving that such a simple plan worked. He digs in his pocket and comes up with his wallet. He hands the woman his driver's licence and she studies it for a while, then taps at her keyboard. Eggsy leans in a little, trying to see what's on her monitor, but she's got a privacy screen on and he can't see anything at all.

"Here you go, Mr Unwin," the receptionist says. She hands his licence back, apparently satisfied. "I'll give you a guest name tag. It allows you free access to the facilities except for the maturation room."

"Thanks," Eggsy says. He attaches the plastic name tag to his lapel. He's guessing she has a list of people approved to roam around freely; she must have checked to make sure he was on it. He wonders who put the list together. Was it Merlin? Harry himself?

The thought occupies him as he sets off on his private tour. Now that he's started wondering about it, he can't stop. Does Harry think about him a lot? Does Harry even think about him at all? Maybe Harry's moved on, putting the past firmly behind him, immersing himself in his work here. Maybe Harry is actually dreading their inevitable meeting.

The distillery reminds him a lot of Statesman, and what he saw in Kentucky. There are fewer stills, maybe, and no horses on the grounds, but a lot of it is the same. He supposes he ought to learn the technical terms for everything he's looking at, but all that can come later. Assuming the meeting with Harry goes well and that he'll actually be coming back here someday.

It's interesting stuff, but it's really not why he's here. Within a couple hours he's exhausted all the places he can go. He's getting kind of hungry, but more importantly, he thinks he might be ready to finally face Harry. After all, he can only wander around for so long. It's either face the music or leave, and he's never yet backed down from a challenge.

After a few wrong turns, he ends up on the top floor of the main building, where the administrative offices are located. By process of elimination he finds the suite where Harry's office must be, and he approaches the receptionist sitting there. "Hi, I'm here from Kingsman tailors. I was wondering if Harry was in?"

His heart is pounding and his palms are disgustingly sweaty. He smiles at the lady though, hoping that he comes across as charming and not creepy. He's always been pretty good at hiding when he's uncomfortable (thanks a lot, Dean), and being a spy has only honed that talent.

"I'm sorry, sir," says the receptionist. "Mr Hart is out of the office right now. I don't expect him back until later this afternoon."

"Oh," Eggsy says.

It's utterly anti-climactic. He has no clue what to do now. In all his imaginings of how this might go down, Harry not being here wasn't an option he ever considered.

"I can take your name," the receptionist offers, "and let him know you're here."

"Er," Eggsy stammers. He's not sure if that's such a good idea. Then again, blindsiding Harry with his sudden arrival might not be so cool either.

He glances at his watch. He could go get something to eat; there's a cafeteria here where the many employees can have their lunch. Or he could even go all the way back to the town and grab something at the pub. But he has the feeling that leaving will turn out to be a bad idea. If Harry's really this busy, he might pop back into his office only for a little while before going out again, and then Eggsy would miss him completely.

"Can I just wait here?" He gestures to the comfy-looking chairs that line the open area outside the heavy wood doors that lead to Harry's office.

The receptionist looks uncertain. "It could be a long wait," she cautions.

Eggsy gives her another charming smile. "That's okay," he says. "I don't mind."

She makes a helpless gesture toward the chairs, admitting defeat. After all, it's not like she can throw him out.

He walks over to one of the chairs and sits down. It's just as comfortable as he expected. Trust Harry to think of this little detail. Of course, he might not have bothered renovating this area. Why waste money on something like chairs and receptionist desks when there was a whole new plant to be upgraded and a new label to be launched?

He has no idea how long he'll be waiting. He pulls out his phone, silences it, then sends Roxy a text. _This place is pretty sweet. You'll like it._

He waits, but there is no immediate answer. Well, maybe she's busy. Maybe she's with Merlin.

The thought makes him shake his head, trying to dislodge the unwanted imagery that comes with it. That's _really_ not something he wants to picture, thanks very much.

With nothing better to do, he opens Facebook and starts going through his feed. Might as well see if anything interesting is happening back home.

****

The receptionist, whose name is Donna, goes home at 5:00. She gives Eggsy a worried look. "You really aren't supposed to be here after hours."

Eggsy holds up his guest pass. "It's okay," he says. "I'm with Kingsman."

Donna still looks uncertain, and Eggsy hastens to assure her. "I'll only wait til 5:30," he says. "Then I'm leaving."

She doesn't seem too happy about this, but it's clear she wants to get out of there; she must have someplace she needs to be. At last she leaves, but not without a lingering stare at Eggsy, silently ordering him to be good.

Alone in the waiting room, Eggsy sighs. His arse has gone numb even in the comfy chair, and he's absolutely starving. Roxy hasn't texted him back, he's bored sick of playing Candy Crush, and the battery on his phone is nearing 20% so he's got to put it away.

He slouches down in the chair until he's almost sliding off, plants his feet and tips his head back. He might as well catch a nap, he figures. He used to be a heavy sleeper -- another lesson learned thanks to Dean -- but being a spy has pretty much cured him of that. He trusts he'll wake up in plenty of time when he hears Harry coming.

He closes his eyes and lets himself drift. He really is hungry. Maybe he and Harry can get something for dinner. Or maybe just a couple of drinks, although he supposes drinking martinis in a whisky distillery would be considered sacrilege.

Not that he gives a shit. They can do whatever they like. Just as long as they finally sit down and talk.

****

"Eggsy?"

The voice drags him out of sleep. He turns away, annoyed at whoever has been rude enough to ruin a perfectly good nap.

"Eggsy."

He blinks, and abruptly the reality of his situation comes crashing home. He scrambles to sit up straight, almost falls out of the chair, and finally fumbles to an upright position. "Fuck."

"I wasn't aware you were here," Harry says. He glances around the empty waiting room.

Eggsy blinks rapidly, trying to clear his muddled brain. He can't fucking believe he fell asleep, that Harry found him passed out in the waiting room like this. He can only hope he wasn't snoring, or fuck, even drooling. "What the fuck."

"Did you need something?" Harry tries. He raises his voice just a little.

At last Eggsy turns toward him. Harry stands a short distance away, looking somewhat bemused. He's dressed in a charcoal grey suit Eggsy hasn't seen on him before, with narrow white pinstriping and a black tie; the tiniest white polka dots adorn the tie. He's still wearing the glasses Merlin made for him, with one lens darkened. Despite the late hour his hair is still perfectly styled, and there is only the faintest five o'clock shadow darkening his jaw and upper lip.

He's thinner than Eggsy remembers, but there's more colour in his face, like he's been spending some time outdoors. He looks tired, though, like he hasn't had a good night's sleep in a while, which is something Eggsy knows only too well.

"Harry." To his disgust he realises he's been acting like someone still half-asleep, barely aware of his surroundings, practically ignoring the man standing right in front of him.

With a grunt he pushes himself out of the chair and stands up. "Sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to fall asleep like that. But where the hell were you? Donna said you'd be in later this afternoon. I didn't know she meant fucking midnight."

The words just kind of drop into the space between them, full of angry hostility. The terrible thing is, he doesn't really _mean_ to say any of them, which only makes it a thousand times worse. 

Harry sort of stiffens up, his posture going even straighter then normal. "It's barely seven o'clock," he says. "And if you wanted to see me during business hours, you could have displayed the common courtesy of calling ahead to let me know."

"Why should I have?" Eggsy retorts. "You invited me. Didn't know I'd need to schedule a meeting through your fucking secretary for that."

Harry blinks, and Eggsy grimaces in sudden revelation. "Fuck. _You_ didn't invite me, did you?"

"I'm afraid not," Harry says faintly.

"Merlin," Eggsy says.

Fucking busybody interfering Merlin. And Roxy too, she must have been in on it. So quick to volunteer him for the trip, saying she was too busy to go right away. When all along she and Merlin must have planned this whole thing.

"So it would seem," Harry says, still in that polite but distant voice.

He can't believe it. Well, fuck that. He's outta here. No way he's sticking around after this. 

Why would Merlin do this to him? What the fuck was he thinking?

And then it hits him. Maybe Merlin didn't do this to him. Maybe Merlin did it to _Harry._

Merlin's been up here a lot during the past four months, as soon as he was recovered enough to travel. He's spent more time with Harry than any of them, assisting him and Statesman get the distillery going again. Merlin was the one who helped Harry with the pesky legal crap about getting himself declared among the living again, having his bank accounts and real estate restored to him, all that junk.

And if anyone is in a position to know what Harry thinks about Eggsy and his failed relationship, it's Merlin.

So Eggsy firms up his jaw and denies his first instinct, which is to storm out of there without looking back. No, he's here now. For better or for worse. And if Merlin manouevred him up here on false pretenses, that gives him the edge. He might be silently pining away for Harry and wondering just what the fuck is going on between them, but apparently Harry has been doing exactly the same thing. Except Harry has been the transparent one. Enough for Merlin to do something about it.

The thought gives him more confidence, and bolsters his sagging hopes. He's even able to smile a little. "Well," he says, "since I did come all this way…" He lets the rest of it dangle, hoping Harry will take the hint.

It takes a moment, but Harry does at last seem to remember his gentlemanly manners. "Right," he says. "Would you like a tour?"

"Already had one," Eggsy says. 

Harry nods. "Well then."

Fucking hell. Eggsy tries not to sigh out loud. This isn't going to be easy, is it?

"Could use something to eat though," he says.

"I'm afraid the cafeteria is closed for the day," Harry says. He's doing that thing again where he's speaking just a little too loudly.

And Eggsy, who knows him better now than he ever did during that short time when they first met, knows exactly what that means.

Harry is scared shitless.

It reminds him of that day in Kentucky, in that horrid padded room where Harry had drawn all over the walls and nearly drowned because Statesman didn't know fuck-all about how to save him. He remembers the way Harry's voice had jagged up and down with fear, the way he had almost fallen over his own feet in his haste to get himself and the fuzzy puppy away from Eggsy's gun. He remembers the way Harry had been shaking when they finally, finally hugged each other tight.

"We could go get something?" he says hopefully.

Harry hesitates so long that Eggsy's hopes sink again. He really _should_ have just walked away.

"The White Hart is open," Harry finally says. "They have a lamentable lack of understanding on how to make even the most basic foods, but they always have an open table."

Eggsy can't help grinning. "You get in for free with a name like that?"

Harry stares at him blankly.

"Never mind," Eggsy says. He's not sure he wants to go to a pub where they always have open tables because their food is so shitty. Especially since the stuff he and Harry need to talk about is rather private.

But then again, a public setting could be the best thing. They can start slow. Talk about the distillery, the tailors, simple things like that. They can work their way up to the private stuff. Walk back to wherever Harry's staying, and finally talk about the things that actually matter.

"Yeah, we can do that," he says.

"All right," Harry says. "I just need a few minutes to finish up in here." He gives Eggsy a brief nod, then he turns and heads for his office.

"Fuck," Eggsy says under his breath. They've only been around each other for five minutes and already it's headed into disastrous fucked-up-beyond-repair territory.

He doesn't understand. On the plane to Cambodia they had shared a martini and private, honest talk about themselves. They had made plans together, working out the strategy for the upcoming assault on Poppy's compound. And at Poppyland itself, they had moved together like they had been doing it for years, a coordinated attack that had required no work at all, it was so effortless.

Afterward Harry had been everywhere at once, it seemed. Taking charge of their return home, overseeing the dispensation of the prisoners and Sir Elton John. Overseeing Merlin's recovery. Issuing orders to Roxy and the remaining Kingsman staff on what they should be doing back at home. And yet throughout it all, he had remained open and accessible, spending as much time as he could with Eggsy.

It wasn't until they returned to Statesman that Harry receded into the background, allowing Champ and the Americans to take over. Maybe that was when everything had started to change, Eggsy thinks now. Maybe that was when he started to lose Harry.

He wanders slowly over to the double doors that lead into Harry's office. They stand open now, admitting entrance to the large room beyond. Eggsy steps inside and looks around in disbelief.

Everywhere he looks he sees signs of unrelenting activity. Blueprints laid open on a conference table. Stacks of papers. Three laptops. Two large screens hang on the wall, one showing the dining room of the Kingsman tailor shop, the other currently not displaying anything. A table with coffee service, bottles of liquor, and crystal glasses. In one corner a door stands ajar, leading to a small bathroom; only the edge of the counter and an ivory shower curtain are visible from where Eggsy stands. And beside it, a long leather couch with a blanket and a pillow stacked neatly at one end.

"Fucking hell," Eggsy says loudly.

"Excuse me?" Harry was standing at his desk, leaning down and tapping away at one of the laptops, but he straightens up when he hears this.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Eggsy demands. He walks deeper into the office, noting the small details. The coatrack in the corner that holds not just a coat but an entire suit in a garment bag. The shaving kit he can now see on the bathroom counter. The calendar hanging on the wall with at least three items written on each little square. "Are you…do you _live_ here?"

"Don't be absurd," Harry snaps.

"Yeah?" Eggsy retorts. "What the fuck am I supposed to think when I see all this?" He gestures to the couch and the pillow. The coatrack with its suit. "Do you ever go home? Do you sleep here?"

"I do what I need to do," Harry says. He doesn't raise his voice this time, but Eggsy can feel the cold emanating from him all the way across the room. "What did you think, Eggsy? That I could just snap my fingers and restore Kingsman? Do you have _any idea_ of the work involved?" He answers his own question, his tone laden with sarcasm. "No, of course you don't. You—"'

"Well, how could I?" Eggsy exclaims. "You're hiding away up here, doing it all by yourself!"

Harry actually flinches a little. "I beg your pardon?"

A year ago Eggsy would have shrunk in on himself, the lessons of Dean remembered all too clearly. Now, though, he stands tall, shoulders back, chin up. "You heard me."

"Is that what you think?" Harry asks quietly. He still stands there behind his desk, and too late Eggsy gets how he's cleverly put it between them, a physical barrier to keep them from getting too close.

Eggsy shakes his head. "I don't know," he says, taking it down a notch too. "How would I? We don't ever talk anymore, Harry. I ain't seen you since we got back to London. You couldn't wait to get away, it seemed like. It's like…" He takes a breath, makes himself say the humiliating words out loud. "It's like you don't want to see me anymore."

Harry doesn't respond right away. He looks down though, and that's really all the answer Eggsy needs.

"Yeah, okay," he says. "I get it." He starts to back up. "I'll go. But –"

"Eggsy," Harry says.

"—just so you know, this wasn't my idea. I never wanted you to—"

"Eggsy. I don't want you to go."

That stops him in his tracks. Heart thumping, hardly breathing, Eggsy stares. "What."

Harry breathes in deep, his shoulders visibly rising as he braces himself. He lifts his head and looks Eggsy square in the eye. "I don't want you to go."

"Okay," he says. It's barely more than a whisper.

"God knows I should," Harry says. "I should let you walk out of here. It would be the best thing for us both."

"Why?" Eggsy bursts out. "What the fuck would make you say that?" He hurries forward a couple steps, erasing the distance he had backpedaled. He stops though when he sees the way Harry stiffens up in alarm, the way he did when Eggsy first tried to hug him in Kentucky, before he remembered.

"You know the answer to that," Harry says quietly. He sounds so defeated then, so unlike his usual confident self, that Eggsy's heart lurches in his chest. Exactly what has been going on up here all this time? What has Harry been telling himself? What has he been thinking?

"No, I don't," he says. "And if you want me to know, I guess you're just gonna have to tell me yourself." He throws it out there, a challenge waiting to be picked up and acted on.

Harry doesn't say anything, though. He just stands there behind his desk, behind the mountains of paperwork and the computers, this new safe place he's made for himself where he doesn't have to think about anything because he's made sure there isn't time for it. 

Eggsy watches him and feels their chance -- their only chance -- slipping away, and he panics.

"Not here, though, okay?" he pleads. "Let's go out. We'll get shitty pub food. We can make martinis later or something. Just…" He stares at Harry, silently willing him to agree. "Just come with me. Talk to me." _Don't leave me again._

In the resulting silence, he is sure he's failed. Harry will say no. It's too late. Whatever chance they had is gone, several months gone, and he's just now understanding that.

"All right," Harry says, so low that Eggsy almost can't hear him over the pounding of his heart. "We'll talk. We owe each other that much, at least."

It's more a dire warning than a sign of anything hopeful, but Eggsy chooses to believe the best. They will talk. They'll work this out, whatever this is.

They'll be okay. They really will.

They have to be.

****

The pub really does have terrible food; the chips are limp and soggy, and the fish is cold in the middle. Despite how hungry he is, Eggsy hardly eats anything. Although to be fair that's less about the food itself and more because he's so nervous.

Harry only picks at his food, too. They don't talk much except to make pitiful small talk about the weather in Scotland and what the town is like. Eggsy volunteers some of the information he learned about the new distillery, and for a little while Harry brightens, talking about the operations of the place and the new Kingsman label, but by the time they pay the cheque and leave, they've exhausted that avenue of conversation, too.

They walk slowly through the night. Eggsy has no idea where they're going; he only knows they don't seem to be headed in the direction of the distillery. He takes that as a hopeful sign that Harry doesn't intend to send him packing right away.

His suspicions are borne out when Harry eventually leads him into a distinctly residential area. It's not like the quiet mews in London, but the houses here are clearly newer and more expensive. Lamps glow behind curtained windows, along with the flickering uncertain light of tellies.

The house at the end of row doesn't look any different from the others on the street. The garden in front is small but well-kept. The porch light is on, along with a lamp in what must be the living room. As they walk up, Harry takes the key out of his pocket, and the living room drapes are nudged aside by a fuzzy brown dog.

Eggsy grins. "You still have him!"

Harry shoots him a look as he unlocks the front door. "Of course I do," he says tartly. "What did you think, I gave him away?"

Of course he hadn't thought any such thing, but he _had_ wondered what had become of the cairn terrier puppy he gave Harry. They had left the pup at Statesman when they went on the hunt for the Golden Circle, and afterward the dog had come home with them, but Eggsy hasn't heard a word about it since then.

They walk inside, Eggsy hanging back enough to allow Harry to go in first. The puppy runs forward, his whole rump wagging with joy. Harry named him Hamish, Eggsy remembers, and he smiles.

The house itself is such a change from the one in Stanhope Mews that he almost can't believe the same person lives here. Only one framed artwork hangs on the wall, a bland landscape that could depict anywhere. The furnishings are so generic that none of them stand out or look like their owner could possibly care about them. A smell of lemon polish hangs lightly in the air; Harry must pay for someone to let Hamish out and do the housework.

There are no pictures anywhere. A laptop and a tablet sit on the coffee table alongside a legal pad. The drapes are a boring taupe colour that matches the carpet. Eggsy's seen safe houses that have more personality. And it only reinforces his conviction that Harry spends very little time here.

It's all so fucking depressing he can hardly stand it.

"Can I get you anything?" Harry asks. He heads for the kitchen.

As soon as he walks away, Hamish runs up to Eggsy. The little dog barks once, then stops at his feet.

Delighted, Eggsy leans down to pet him. He wonders what JB would make of this fuzzball, if the two of them would play well together or if the little puppy would dominate his pathetic pug.

He shuffles his feet so the puppy gets the hint and backs away, then he follows Harry into the kitchen. Everything here is just what he expected: the gleam of appliances, shining tile floor, and not one personal item.

He's still pretty hungry, but he's not sure he wants to see what's in -- or what's not in, more likely -- Harry's fridge. "Wouldn't say no to a martini," he says hopefully.

Harry's polite smile freezes. A moment later though it's back in place. "For old times' sake."

"Yeah," Eggsy says. The word sticks in his throat, though. He can tell Harry's just going through the motions; he doesn't really want to make them martinis.

But fuck it. Eggsy came all this way, even if it was under false pretenses. And they _do_ need to talk. At least the alcohol will give him some courage. And since he hardly ate anything, maybe he'll get drunk quickly enough that he won't feel it much when they finally give in and go their separate ways.

"Can I use your bathroom?" he asks.

"Of course," Harry says. "It's down the hall."

"Thanks," Eggsy says and slouches off.

There are no butterflies in this bathroom. No stuffed dog either, of course. Nothing but towels neatly folded, a pump bottle of soap, and a throw rug the same taupe colour as in the living room. If it wasn't for the lack of a bowl full of little paper-wrapped soaps, he could be standing in a hotel.

In the mirror his reflection stares sombrely back at him. His tie is still crisply knotted, but his hair is falling out of its careful styling. And little wonder. He's been up since the crack of dawn, having caught an early train to get here.

Eggsy scowls at his reflection. With his luck he'll start yawning in a little bit and Harry will think he's bored, and decide he really does want nothing further to do with him.

He's about to leave when his curiosity gets the better of him. He glances at the closed door, which is just plain stupid, then eases open the medicine cabinet.

It's practically empty, containing only a bottle of antacids and another one of aspirin, along with an unopened box of plasters. But Eggsy can't help noticing that the aspirin is more than half gone, which is pretty horrible considering that Harry probably isn't home much to even be taking any.

It's like last year, he thinks suddenly. When he begged Merlin to give him any assignment no matter how small, teach him anything no matter how insignificant. Anything so he wouldn't have time to sit around and think about V-Day and the disco lights glittering on Gazelle's blades and the way the image on Harry's glasses jerked back so abruptly when Valentine shot him. What Harry's doing now is exactly the same. He's burying himself in work and the distillery so he doesn't have to think about—

Well that's the question, isn't it? What is Harry hiding from?

And again he wonders if Merlin sent him up here not for his own sake (although that's undoubtedly a part of it), but for Harry's. If Harry really has been keeping away all this time because the alternative, to see Eggsy with Tilde, was just too painful.

He takes a deep breath. There's only one way he's going to find out the truth. And it sure as hell isn't by staying in here.

He returns to the living room to find Harry standing there with their martinis. Hamish is in his little doggy bed, sitting up and watching Eggsy approach with quivering-nose eagerness. "I hope you remembered to only glance at the vermouth," Eggsy says.

Harry's smile this time is a bit more genuine. "Of course I did," he says. He holds out one of the glasses.

Their hands brush as Harry hands the glass over. It's an accident, Eggsy would swear to it, but that doesn't mean a damn thing. The touch of Harry's fingers on his sends a jolt through him brighter and sharper than any electricity.

He wants— Oh fuck, he _wants_. So very many things. He wants to touch Harry again, to feel Harry's skin beneath his fingers and his lips. He wants to know how Harry tastes. He wants to see Harry without the bespoke suit of armour, scars and wrinkles and all. He wants to know if he's ever going to stop thinking about Harry this way, ever stop wanting what he can't have.

Harry sits on one end of the couch; Eggsy takes the other, very aware that this position puts him on Harry's right. He knows that's by design, and he's absolutely okay with that. It's a simple thing that makes Harry's life immensely easier, and since everything tonight has already been ridiculously difficult, he's glad at least one thing can be simple.

The couch isn't overly large, but it's big enough that a couple feet of space separate them. It might as well be a couple of fucking miles, though, for how close Eggsy actually feels to Harry right now.

He sips at his martini. It's excellent, of course. He expected nothing less. But the drink is just an excuse, something to hold in his hand and look at. It's a distraction, that's all.

He's got to say something. The problem is, he has no fucking idea what.

Since they parted ways after returning to England, he's held a thousand imaginary conversations with Harry. Sometimes he's angry and accusing, _Why did you run off to Scotland and leave me?_ Sometimes he's sad and contrite, _I don't know what I did wrong but please let me make it better._ Sometimes he just says fuck it, _I'm in love with you, I always have been and I always will be._

But just now none of those options feel right. None of them will let them have the honest talk they've been avoiding for four months.

So he sips at his drink again and he lowers it to his lap and he blurts out the first thing his racing brain can come up with. "We forgot to have a toast."

Harry looks mildly surprised. "Were we supposed to have one?"

_Here's to you, Eggsy. You're just what Kingsman needs._

He shrugs. He can feel his cheeks burning with embarrassment, but he forges on ahead anyway. "We coulda."

"Very well," Harry says in his I'm-being-polite voice. "What should we drink to?"

Eggsy's mind goes perfectly blank. He can't for the life of him think of anything worth celebrating. He'd love it if the sofa cushion beneath his arse just swallowed him up, tugged him down into that horrible taupe carpet never to be seen again.

Harry starts to raise his glass, like he's just had an idea, and Eggsy suddenly knows he can't bear to hear whatever boring, just-being-polite thing Harry intends to say. He just can't.

"To Daisy!" he almost yells.

Harry blinks. "I beg your pardon?"

"To my sister," Eggsy says in a more normal volume. "It's her birthday in a couple weeks." It's true, actually, although he wouldn't have ever thought of toasting a three-year old before this.

Then again, he wouldn't have thought of doing a lot of things before he met Harry.

Harry lifts his glass a tiny bit higher. He even smiles a little. "To Daisy. Happy birthday."

Eggsy drinks, and his heart is going a mile a minute because this is stupid, this is so fucking stupid, they both know why they're really here and what they need to talk about, and instead they're toasting a fucking toddler.

So at last he just comes out with it.

"So how come we don't ever talk anymore?" he says.

Harry stiffens, his back going even straighter, his chin lifting ever so slightly.

"And don't say cause you've been busy," Eggsy continues, "because that's bullshit and we both know it. If you really wanted to talk to me, you'd make time. Hell, you know I'd've dropped everything if you called. But you never did. And I just want to know why."

"Earlier tonight you accused me of being so busy I didn't even come home to sleep," Harry says. He sounds like he's pissed off but trying not to be. "If you truly believe that, then you should realise I could hardly interrupt my schedule for a social call just to ask how you were doing."

"Just to…" Eggsy can't even repeat it in full, he's so astonished. "What the fuck? Is that all I am to you now? A _social call_? A duty?"

"You know perfectly well that is not what I meant," Harry says and now he's not even hiding it.

"Then what the fuck did you mean?" Eggsy shoots back. Without meaning to, he finds himself on his feet. "Cause I sure as fuck don't know."

Harry stands too, clearly not wanting to be at a disadvantage. "It was obvious to me that you needed some time to work things out with the princess," he says. "Nothing would have been served by me calling you."

"It was obvious?" Eggsy echoes. Even though of course it's true, everyone knew, it's still humiliating to hear someone say it so frankly.

Harry glances down, ill at ease. When he speaks, he sounds weirdly hesitant. "I could see there were problems between you, so I left," he says. "So you might work things out."

What the fuck?

"Oh, I get it," Eggsy says, and he's so angry he wants to hurl the martini glass against the wall. "So you was just being all noble, is that it?" 

"I was hardly being noble," Harry says icily. "I think of it more as being a mature adult. You told me that losing her broke you. From the moment we returned home you were focused on trying to save your relationship. How else was I supposed to interpret all that?"

Momentarily at a loss, Eggsy can't think of anything to say. Okay yeah, in hindsight he can see how that stuff added up to make a picture. The problem is, that picture is of something that never existed. Not really.

But he can't take that without at least trying to defend himself. "How would you even know? You left right away! You weren't even around to see us or to know what was going on with us."

"I went to Scotland," Harry says, "because it was clear to me that my staying would do more harm than good."

"Oh fuck off with that," Eggsy says. "This whole falling-on-your-sword thing isn't a good look on you." 

Harry's eye flashes; he's just as angry now. He's using that too-loud voice again, speaking in such crisp tones there's a knife edge to each word. "Believe what you like, but I left so you might have the chance to salvage your relationship with Tilde."

"Yeah, thanks for that," Eggsy starts to say, but Harry talks right over him, ignoring him completely.

"And I left because if I didn't," Harry says, "you would never have had that chance with her." He pauses, and Eggsy can actually see him steeling himself to say what comes next.

"Because I wouldn't have let you."

That stops him cold. What? What the _fuck_?

But it's not like he can pretend he doesn't know what Harry means. Because he knows damn well. If Harry had been there over the past few months while he and Tilde tried to make a go of it, nothing would have been the same. Just one word from Harry, just one word he could have interpreted as encouragement on this impossible dream, and he would have gone to Harry's side in a heartbeat. With no hesitation or regret.

And Harry had known that. He had known it from the start, even before their plane touched down in England.

"And though I may be an old fool," Harry says, quieter now, having said his piece, "I am not a selfish one. At least not yet." He sighs. "So I left."

Eggsy stares, torn between anger and shock. Hope flares hot and violent in his chest, darting about like one of Harry's butterflies. Can it really be true? Can Harry really feel so strongly for him?

Did Harry leave not because of something he did, but because he couldn't bear to see Eggsy and Tilde together?

"But you…"

He thinks about those things he said on the plane en route to Cambodia, and what Harry saw of him when it came to Tilde. And yeah, he can understand why Harry would have thought they were just another young couple in love who happened to be going through a rough patch. The problem is Harry left for Scotland too soon. He never got to see the truth, never got to realise that they were never going to resolve anything, never make it work.

"You know, I did love her," Eggsy says. "I really did." He'll never stop loving her, either, or regret the time they spent together.

Harry looks away, clearly not wanting to hear this.

Eggsy goes on, not wanting him to get the wrong idea. "But I wasn't _in love_ with her."

Harry turns toward him, a quick jerk of his head. Even with just one eye, he pins Eggsy with his gaze, making it impossible for Eggsy to look away.

"I wasn't in love with her," Eggsy says again. He gives Harry a weak smile. "It was always you, Harry. Only you."

Harry flinches back like he's just been dealt a horrible shock. Like he can't believe what he's just been told.

"I never changed your house," Eggsy says. "Did Merlin tell you that? I never changed one thing. Even Mr Pickle was still there. The only thing I did was start my own wall of newspapers. But I swear that was the only thing." He pauses, remembering the bickering with Tilde, the arguments over whether or not it was creepy to keep the house as a shrine to a dead man.

"I couldn't bear to change anything else," he says. His throat tightens, and he swallows hard. "I couldn't bear to lose any more of you."

Harry just stares at him, a combination of wariness and hope in his eye. It hurts to see him look that way, but at the same time it makes Eggsy happy as fuck. Because he can think of only one reason why Harry would look at him like that: and that's because he still cares. He wants what Eggsy's saying to be true.

He wants this, too.

The space separating them no longer seems like an impassible chasm. It's shrunk down, become a mere gap. Easily bridged. Easily crossed.

Eggsy takes a single step toward him. "Harry."

Harry stands his ground, still staring at him. The martini he didn't even want sits on the coffee table before him. The glass is still full; he only took that one sip when they made their toast.

"Just tell me," Eggsy says. "Am I wrong in thinking we still have a chance?"

"A chance at what?" Harry says, barely more than a whisper.

"At this," Eggsy says. He gestures to the space between them. "At us." He takes another step forward.

He's close enough now to see the way Harry's jaw tightens. And at first when Harry says, "Yes," he's overjoyed.

And then he remembers the question he asked.

He goes cold all over. Then hot. His breath hitches. His chest hurts, really fucking hurts. It's the only part of his body he can feel. "Bullshit," he whispers. Then again, stronger. "Bullshit."

Harry says nothing.

"You're a fucking liar," Eggsy says. "You want this as much as me. That's why you left. You even said it." He takes another step on numb feet and now there are only inches separating them and he can smell Harry's aftershave. "You're a fucking liar, Harry Hart. You told me you hadn't ever been in love. And now you want to stand there and tell me there's no chance for us? When you couldn't even stand to be around me cause you were afraid you'd stop me from working things out with my girl?" He shakes his head. "No way. No fucking way."

No, he gets it now. Or he thinks he does.

"I know what this is about," he says. "You _are_ being all noble. Trying to push me away so I don't get tied to an old man who's lost an eye and everything that he ever had. Isn't that it?" He feels like a fucking idiot; he can't believe he didn't see this coming.

"I know it is," he rushes on to say before Harry can answer. "And you better fucking listen to me, 'cause I'm only gonna say this once. All that stuff you're thinking is just bullshit, Harry. It don't _mean_ anything. I fell in love with you even before you asked me to become a Kingsman, and nothing that's happened since then has changed my mind. And nothing is ever _gonna_ make me change my—"

Harry moves so fast Eggsy scarcely has time to react. Harry's mouth descends on his, stealing his breath. The first touch of Harry's lips on his sends happiness zinging through his veins and returns the feeling to his body in a flood of warmth. His arms wrap themselves around Harry and pull him in, and then he completely forgets how to even think.

It's easier to hold onto Harry now than in Kentucky, he's become so much thinner. Eggsy still has to stand on his toes, though, that's stayed the same. And equally true now as it was then is just how _right_ it feels to stand there with Harry in his arms, Harry's lips on his, Harry's body pressed up against his.

It's hard to tell exactly when the kiss ends. He can taste Harry, feel Harry's breath warming his lips. The frame of Harry's glasses is cool against his skin. His chest is still pressed to Harry's, rising and falling as one as they breathe.

"Eggsy," Harry sighs, and Eggsy tightens the circle of his arms and kisses Harry again. He could listen to Harry say his name for all eternity. _Eggsy, would you like a lift home? Eggsy, meet me at the tailor I told you about. Here's to you, Eggsy._

And in Kentucky, his name like a prayer, Harry trembling in his arms, slowly surrendering to his embrace. _Eggsy. Eggsy. Eggsy._

The kiss that started out so sweet deepens into something darker, harder. Harry's hands splay against his back, holding him in place.

As though he's going anywhere.

He rises a little higher on his toes. Presses himself against Harry. Breathes him in.

He's wanted this since that morning at the Black Prince, since he saw the violent grace coiled beneath Harry's bespoke suit. He's ached uselessly for this night after night, dreamed of it even while he was sharing Harry's old bed with someone else.

Harry stops kissing him so suddenly it leaves him breathless. He bows his head enough to rest his forehead on Eggsy's. "We can't," he says, but he holds Eggsy so close, like it will tear him apart to let go.

"Yes, we can," Eggsy says. He gives a soft kiss to the corner of Harry's mouth. In his arms, Harry shivers. 

Slowly Harry lifts his head. He looks at Eggsy and it's like watching him reclaim himself in Kentucky all over again. In the space of a single heartbeat he transforms from soft and open to someone who knows exactly what he must do. "I'll never let you go again," he warns. 

"You better not," Eggsy says, and kisses him again.

It's different now. There is intent. Meaning. Harry's hands slide down his back and then up again. Eggsy clutches Harry's arms, his shoulders. Heat rises between them.

Their suits, so fitted and flattering, are suddenly just an obstacle to get rid of. All that wool and linen is preventing him from touching, from feeling. And he wants to feel Harry's skin beneath his fingers. He _needs_ it.

He reaches for the button on Harry's jacket just as Harry's hands slip around to his front, seeking the same thing. Eggsy can't help but smile, breaking their kiss a little as he grins.

How can he not smile? They were so in sync that day in Poppyland, moving together like they had been doing it for years. Tonight it's like the intervening months might as well not even have existed. They are in sync again, sharing an instinct that comes so effortlessly that it could be scary if Eggsy weren't so thrilled by it.

Harry doesn't move as Eggsy undoes the buttons on his jacket. First the outer, then the two inside. As it opens all it reveals is the white dress shirt Harry is wearing, but the sight might as well be bare skin for how absurdly excited it makes Eggsy. 

He drags his palms up Harry's chest, over the silk tie, over muscles he can feel through fabric. Up and up, applying a little more pressure as the heels of his hands make contact with Harry's nipples. He's rewarded with the sound of Harry breathing in sharply, and he files that away for later. 

Up and up and then he slips his hands under the jacket itself, lifting it off Harry's shoulders. No holster today, which briefly disappoints him until he reminds himself it would just be one more thing standing in their way.

Next time though.

He starts to push the jacket down, but then he stops, suddenly uncertain. This is strange new territory here. It's a pretty big step to go from kissing to undressing. He has the sense that it wouldn't take much for Harry to go all reluctantly noble on him again, to say they shouldn't be doing this, they can't be together. What if he pushes too hard? What if he's moving too fast?

"Why did you stop?" Harry asks.

Eggsy could kick himself. He fucked up, all right, but not because he was moving too fast. Because he paused. Because he gave Harry a chance to second guess everything.

But he's got to be honest with Harry. With himself, too. If they're going to do this, really going to do it, they both need to be on the same page. Completely.

He lowers his arms back to his sides and takes a single step back. "I wasn't sure if I should keep going," he says.

There. It's the perfect chance for Harry to turn him down, to put an end to all this. But though it might mean that he's just shot himself in the foot, Eggsy can't be sorry he did it. There's been enough misunderstandings between them. Enough uncertainty.

He looks up at Harry and is relieved to see no doubt in that warm brown eye. None at all. "You should," Harry says.

"Yeah?" Eggsy says, because he's just got to be completely sure.

"If that's what you want," Harry says, and now he does sound a little uncertain, like maybe he's thinking this is something Eggsy doesn't want.

"Fuck yeah, it is," Eggsy breathes, and he rushes in and kisses Harry again.

There's no going slow now. Harry reaches for his tie as their mouths slide together, all heat and wet, and Eggsy bats his hands away impatiently. He can do it faster himself. Harry gets the hint and starts undoing his own tie, and Eggsy licks at the inside of Harry's mouth, tasting gin and all those things he never even knew he was missing.

It's madness, pure madness. He's supposed to be taking his kit off but instead he can't keep his hands off Harry. He fumbles with buttons, grabs at Harry's shirt, opens his mouth to Harry's tongue. 

They sway together, bump noses, laugh. Harry gets his suit jacket off and drops it to the floor. Eggsy whips his tie off so fast he feels the burn through his collar. Buttons and cufflinks are dealt with, Harry tugs at Eggsy's shirt, Eggsy's hands dive beneath the waistband of Harry's trousers and yank him closer.

They kiss. They never really _stop_ kissing. And Eggsy laughs because he's never been this happy before, practically giddy with joy.

At last their shoes are kicked off, the shirts and ties fall to the floor. He leans back a little, wanting to see. His mouth feels swollen, his throat is wet where Harry left kisses down to his collarbone.

Harry is beautiful. So fucking beautiful. Lean muscle and strength layered atop old scars and a line of greying hair disappearing under his trousers. Eggsy stares and can't believe he's actually standing here, his skin still warm from Harry's lips, Harry's bare chest close enough to touch. 

A shiver of delight runs through him when he finally does touch. It gets even better when Harry sets hands on his bare back and pulls him in. His body makes contact with Harry's, his cock between them, the heat of Harry's erection pressed against his own. 

"You are so beautiful," Harry whispers, and kisses him. And Eggsy's heart leaps with another explosion of joy, because while he was drinking in the sight of Harry's body, Harry was staring at him like a drowning man having a vision of land. 

His hands roam over warm skin now, down Harry's back, skimming his sides, sliding up his chest. He's aware of the cool air on his chest, the way his nipples rise under the brush of Harry's thumbs, his cock straining at his trousers.

"So beautiful," Harry says again and he bends his knees enough to kiss the mole on Eggsy's throat. "And you're mine." He bites down on Eggsy's collarbone, sucking hard, heat flooding Eggsy's skin, making his cock _ache._

He clutches Harry's shoulders and fastens his teeth on the soft skin of Harry's ear. "Yes," he hisses. "Yes."

Harry shudders and Eggsy is going to fucking die if someone doesn't touch his cock real soon.

"Harry."

Harry is still suckling on that same place, the rim of his glasses jabbing Eggsy's shoulder. Eggsy squirms and shoves his hips forward. "Harry." 

In response one of Harry's hands trails down his spine. And down further, slender fingers dipping into the cleft of his arse through his trousers, and _pressing._

"Fuck!" Eggsy arches up. He digs his fingers into Harry's shoulders hard enough to leave bruises and grinds his poor dick against the bulge in Harry's trousers. "Harry, if you don't--"

Harry lifts his head, and the sight of him sends a fevered rush through Eggsy. Harry's cheeks are flushed, his mouth red and swollen. His hair is falling onto his brow. He looks nothing like a composed gentleman just then.

 _I did that_ , Eggsy thinks with pride. _Fucking hell._

"I need..." He doesn't even know what he needs. 

Thankfully Harry doesn't make him explain. He just sets a hand on Eggsy's arm and looks pointedly toward the stairs. "Come."

It's too perfect a set-up; no way Eggsy can pass that up. "Oh, I'm fucking gonna," he says. He busts out laughing and winks.

Harry just stares at him for a second, clearly not getting it. Then a smile spreads across his face, wide and toothy, revealing his dimples. Eggsy's only seen him smile like that at the little puppy, a smile of uncomplicated joy. Seeing it aimed his way just makes him fall more in love than he would ever have thought possible.

"You had fucking better," Harry says, his voice so low it's more a threat than a promise.

Heat surges through him at the sound of that growl, going straight to his cock. "Then what are we waiting for?" he says.

The stairs are wider than at Harry's old house, carpeted in that same awful light brown colour. There are no pictures on the walls, nothing to distract the eye from the plain, ugly décor. Dressed in only his socks and trousers, Eggsy goes up the steps quickly, wanting to see Harry's bedroom, wanting to keep them moving forward. He has an irrational but strong fear that Harry will change his mind, that this climb through boring white walls will bring Harry back to his senses and he will insist they can't do this after all.

His fears are laid to rest though when they reach the top of the stairs. Harry sets a hand on his lower back, warm and possessive, and guides him to the left without a word.

Not that he couldn't have guessed. Upstairs there are only three rooms and a linen closet. It's quite obvious which room is Harry's. Still, that guiding hand is more than welcome. It means Harry hasn't changed his mind.

The bedroom is large and almost empty. He barely gets more than a glimpse of the room before Harry is there, swinging the door shut behind them. He doesn't turn the light on, but moonlight filters in through the curtained window, enough to see by while still keeping them in shadow.

There's an awkward moment when Eggsy wonders what happens now. Even downstairs he hadn't dared to let himself imagine what would happen tonight, just how far this thing was going to go. But there's no avoiding it now; Harry's bed is right there.

And the simple truth is, whatever happens, he'll be happy. He never even thought they would get this far. He'll take whatever he can get.

Which turns out to be another kiss from Harry, Harry's hands on his arms, his sides, his back. Harry touches him like he can't ever get enough of the feel of Eggsy's skin. Like he's been quietly starving to death all this time, and at last he is able to feast.

Eggsy knows perfectly well what _that_ feels like. He presses himself up against Harry, rising onto his toes for another kiss, so he can sink his hands into that thick hair and scrape his nails down the back of Harry's neck. He's not sure he'll ever be able to stop touching Harry, now that he's allowed to.

One of Harry's hands skims downward to cup his arse. He _lifts_ , raising Eggsy up higher onto his toes. "Off with this," Harry murmurs, his lips on Eggsy's cheek.

"Yeah," Eggsy says. "Yeah. You too."

They kiss again, a quick press of lips, then move apart. Eggsy fumbles at his trousers and yanks them off in such haste that he loses his balance and is forced to do an undignified hopping on one foot. Reflexively he reaches out, and Harry takes his hand, steadying him. 

“Fuck,” Eggsy laughs. He's red with embarrassment. “It's like we never done this before.”

“Only in my dreams,” Harry says. Which is so corny, but also so achingly sad Eggsy can't stand it. To think that Harry was up here all this time, quietly pining away for Eggsy, dreaming of something he thought he'd never have.

At last he shucks his trousers off. He hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his underwear and shoves them down to his ankles; the cool air does nothing to lower the flood of heat in his cock. He peels off his socks, tosses them and his briefs to one side. And then he just stares. 

Naked, Harry is breathtaking. In the dim light his skin gleams. He's miles of long legs, long torso, long feet. His cock nestles against his belly, full and proud.

“Oh Eggsy,” Harry sighs. “Look at you.”

It's everything, hearing that note of worship in Harry's voice. Realising that Harry feels the same way about him, has the same fantasies, the same dreams.

Eggsy touches his chest. He lets his fingertips trail downward, over his stomach, down to finally wrap about his cock. He strokes himself just the way he likes it. He keeps his gaze locked on Harry the whole time.

“This what you imagined?”

Harry stares at him; he's still wearing the glasses with their blacked out lens. His hands remain at his sides, but it clearly costs him; Eggsy doesn't miss the way he has to check himself from reaching out.

He strokes again, pushing into the closed circle of his fingers, cock hard and aching. "Or this?"

"Yes," Harry says. "God, yes."

"Good," Eggsy says. "Cause I imagined it too. You have no idea."

They move toward each other again. Harry reaches out boldly this time, and Eggsy gasps as Harry's hand encircles his cock. "Like this," Harry whispers.

His hand strokes, exactly the way Eggsy just demonstrated. "And this."

He leans in for another kiss. "And this."

The kiss is long and slow, Harry's tongue licking into his mouth with the same lazy motion as his hand on Eggsy's cock. Eggsy groans and pushes in closer, his hands gliding down Harry's back, down to cup his arse.

He wants to take hold of Harry's cock, touch Harry as he's being touched, but he wants to see, too. He pulls back from the kiss long enough to glance down as his fingers brush over Harry's hip. Harry shifts over just a little, making it easier for him, and leans in for another kiss just as Eggsy looks up again.

The bridge of his nose makes contact with the frame of Harry's glasses. Reflexively Eggsy recoils at the contact, his eyes watering in pain. The glasses are knocked askew, though they don't fall off completely. 

"Oh fuck!" Eggsy says. "I'm sorry!"

"It's quite all right," Harry says calmly. Already he's righted the glasses. "It's my fault, really."

"You can take them off, you know," Eggsy says gently.

Harry doesn't answer. Even in the dark, though, Eggsy can see the change in his posture. He's gone all stiff again, no longer warm and pliant to the touch. "I don't think that's a good idea."

Eggsy wants to die. This is not at all a conversation he ever wanted to have. Especially not here. Not now. But even if it means the end to their fun tonight, he knows they got to have this talk.

"Harry," he says. He takes a step back, all seriousness now. "You know I don't care about your eye, right? It doesn't change anything for me. I love you no matter what." 

With no lights on – and now he knows why Harry left them off – he can't rely on his expression to get his point across. It's gotta be there in his voice. In the gentle hand he sets on Harry's arm. "You got nothing to be ashamed of."

"I am not ashamed," Harry says instantly. He's reverted almost completely to the polite gentleman, his voice distant once again.

"Then what?" Eggsy asks. He wants to get it. He really does.

"I saw the way you looked at me in that bar," Harry says. This must be killing him, Eggsy realises. How fucking horrible it must be for him to have to say this shit out loud. "I don't want your pity."

"Fucking hell," Eggsy says. He doesn't know if he's angry or afraid or what the fuck is going on. He only knows that his chest hurts from all the things going on in there. "I don't pity you, Harry. I never did. That day…I was just surprised, okay? And, okay, yeah, it hurt me to see that, to see what you been through. But that's all it was, I swear. You gotta know that."

He closes the distance between them. "I love you," he says again.

He reaches up slowly, giving Harry plenty of time to stop him. But Harry doesn't. He stands perfectly still as Eggsy gently removes the glasses with their blacked out lens, then tosses them aside.

It's dark enough that it's hard to tell he's lost his eye. Only the deeper shadow on his face gives it away, the lack of light reflected. Eggsy doesn't care. After everything they've been through, after everything they've lost, he'll take Harry however he can get him.

He cups Harry's face in both hands, rises on his toes, and kisses him. His hands move down, over Harry's shoulders, down and down as he settles back on his heels again. And then at last he has Harry's cock in his hand.

"I love you," he breathes. He strokes the way he does with his own cock, hoping Harry likes it as much as he does.

"Eggsy," Harry says his name with a sigh. He thrusts a little into Eggsy's cupped fingers and makes a little sound in the back of his throat.

"Yeah," Eggsy says. "Like that."

"You…" Harry sets a hand on his hip and applies just the faintest pressure.

They move toward the bed without a word, without a misstep. Eggsy's right leg touches the bed first. He hesitates, but Harry never does. He leans in and keeps leaning, and Eggsy finds himself borne downward without pause, until he's lying flat on his back with Harry half on top of him, half beside him.

Lying down it's a little easier to find the right rhythm, that point and counterpoint between touching and being touched, kissing and stroking. They're not great at it at first, a bit too much fumbling around, too many pauses. "Is this…?" Harry asks, and "Are you…?" Eggsy asks, and he thinks that at last they've found the one thing they aren't perfectly in sync for, and then Harry kisses him, smothering his bright laugh.

But they get there, and then it's good. It's very good. They move together, hands slick and sliding, their fingers sometimes briefly entwining. He can't see much in the dark, but he hears the little noises Harry makes, the quick catches of breath. And he's no better, gasping and swearing in between kisses, sweating in the heat rising to surround them. 

Harry comes first, a hand clutching Eggsy's hip as his only warning. He loses the rhythm then, momentarily forgetting about Eggsy.

Eggsy doesn't mind. He rocks against Harry's thigh and takes Harry's lax hand and strokes his cock and a few minutes later he's there too, blissed out and utterly happy. 

When he gets back to reality, it's to find himself sticky and sweaty, sprawled on his back with Harry lying close beside him. "Everything all right?" Harry asks quietly. 

For an answer Eggsy turns his head -- they didn't even make it far enough up the bed to be using the pillows -- and kisses Harry. He smiles, slow and lazy. "Yeah."

"Good," Harry says. He smiles back, something Eggsy hears in his voice rather than sees in the dark.

It could be awkward then, the realisation that they're lying naked together, that they just had sex. Instead he feels relaxed and happy. He feels comfortable. Like he's right where he belongs.

"Stay here," Harry says. He gives Eggsy a quick kiss, then he rolls over and off the bed.

Eggsy remains right where he is; he's far too boneless to move even if he wanted to. He watches Harry go into the bathroom and flip on the light. The door is partially closed, obscuring his view. Water runs, but he can't see what Harry is doing.

He closes his eyes. He could fall asleep right now, he's that worn out. It's not just the trip up here and the stress of having it out with Harry. It's everything about the past few months. All the heartache and worrying, all those long nights lying awake wondering if anything was ever going to go right in his life again.

But all that's over. Starting tonight, everything has changed.

The bathroom door opens and Harry walks out. He leaves the light on, bathing him in gold, and Eggsy sits up with a grin, appreciating the view.

Harry is still naked, but he's put his eyepatch on. He's holding a damp flannel and a towel, and as Eggsy just sits there watching, he walks over and hands them to Eggsy.

Suddenly embarrassed, Eggsy takes them both without meeting Harry's gaze. Despite what they just shared, he would feel a little weird letting Harry wash his own come off his stomach.

He cleans himself up, then scoots off the bed -- they never even got under the covers. Now that he's not burning under Harry's touch, he feels the coolness of the room, and he hurries to pull on his underwear before going to the bathroom. He closes the door behind him and slowly breathes out. 

The bathroom is small. There are more signs of humanity in here. An electric toothbrush, a box of tissues. Hairbrush and pomade. But still nothing personal, nothing that wouldn't be out of place in a hotel room. Certainly no butterflies or stuffed dogs.

He leaves the light on when he exits, but lingers in the doorway. "On or off?" he asks, because it suddenly occurs to him that they have to deal with all kinds of practical things. What happens to them now? Where do they go from here? Is he staying the night and if so, is he welcome in this bed?

"Come here," Harry says, which isn't really an answer.

Eggsy leaves the light on. He walks into the bedroom. Harry is sitting up, the covers pulled over his legs. He's wearing a pyjama shirt, long-sleeved, a warm burgundy colour. His hair is still a mess, though he's obviously run his fingers through it trying to bring it to order. Just knowing that he did that, that he's nervous now and wants to look presentable, fills Eggsy with a rush of love and affection. 

So yeah this whole thing is new and strange and there's a lot they've got to sort out. But it's a new strange thing they both have. Together.

"They won't be the best fit, but..." Harry gestures to a folded set of pyjamas Eggsy missed before now. They're at the foot of the bed, royal blue with white striping along the seams. They look nicely warm.

"Cheers," he says with a wink, which is clearly the wrong response, because Harry doesn't smile back. Chastened, Eggsy gets dressed in the borrowed pyjamas. They're too long in the leg and sleeve, too broad in the shoulder, but they're just as warm as he expected. 

He joins Harry in bed, not sure what to say now.

Silently Harry waits for Eggsy to get situated. Then he holds out his right arm.

Immediately Eggsy burrows in, his head finding just the right spot on Harry's shoulder. He can feel the tension in Harry's stiff posture, and the way he relaxes as Eggsy sinks against him. Harry's just as unsure about all this, too. No wonder he didn't react to Eggsy's wink.

Now that there is some light, Eggsy can finally see the entire room. The bed is covered with a dark blue comforter almost the same shade as the pyjamas Harry let him borrow. A dresser stands in one corner and a nightstand of matching dark wood sits beside the bed. On the nightstand there's a lamp, a clock, and a legal pad with a pen resting atop it. Two framed landscapes hang on the walls, each just as boring as the ones downstairs, and Eggsy knows instinctively that one of them is truly a fake, hiding a safe or even just a hole in the wall, someplace Harry has stashed his weaponry. The boring paintings downstairs are just more cover, hung there so these two pictures don't seem totally out of place and suspicious.

They sit together for a little while, two spies who aren't supposed to be in love with each other, two fools who were too proud to even know that they _were_ in love with each other. Harry's arm is wrapped about him, and occasionally his thumb caresses Eggsy's arm. Eggsy can't decide what to do with his right hand, if he should keep it to himself or let it rest on Harry's chest. After an agonising internal debate, he solves the issue by reaching across and taking Harry's left hand. Harry responds at once, twining their fingers and resting their clasped hands on the bedspread where it covers his lap.

Eggsy hums in quiet contentment. He wouldn't mind sitting here like this forever -- but someone has to talk first. 

So he takes a deep breath and he makes himself say it. "So what happens to us now? I mean, that whole thing about no relationships allowed?"

"Fuck that," Harry says rather rudely.

Startled, Eggsy draws back enough to look at him. "What then…you just gonna throw it on the rubbish heap?"

"Well, why not?" Harry counters. "I'm the one who had the rule instituted in the first place. I can bloody well dispose of it if I like."

This gets Eggsy's attention. He had always just assumed the rule was as old as Kingsman itself, an institution that would never change. "What does that mean?"

Harry looks away, and Eggsy can see the old guilt then, the mistake he's still not forgiven himself for. "Your father, of course, was happily married. There was no rule against relationships back then. But I was determined that there would be no more grieving widows, no more children growing up without a parent. I suggested the rule to Arthur and he was quick to agree."

 _Your father…_ Eggsy doesn't even know what to say to that.

"Of course most people ignored it," Harry continues. His voice is soft, his gaze somewhere on the middle distance, remembering times Eggsy wishes he could have seen. "And truthfully it wasn't really an issue, so long as it didn't interfere with someone's ability to get the job done."

That makes sense, but Eggsy still can't stop thinking about how the rule came about in the first place. That guilt Harry can't – or won't – let go of.

"But now," Harry says, and his focus is back on the here and now, on Eggsy. "Now there is no more need for such an antiquated rule.

"Now there is only you and I. And I must warn you, Eggsy, I'm a very selfish man."

"The fuck you are," Eggsy retorts. "You're one of the most self _less_ people I ever met."

There's a silence while Harry thinks about this. Maybe he's embarrassed. Maybe he's pleased. "Well, then when it comes to you I am very selfish."

"That's okay," Eggsy says. "When it comes to you I'm pretty fucking selfish, too." He burrows in even closer, though he could've sworn a second ago that that wasn't possible. "I'm not ever letting you go again, Harry Hart."

"I very much hope not," Harry says, so quietly Eggsy almost misses it.

Eggsy lets go of Harry' s hand and hugs him fiercely with both arms. Harry turns toward him, not only accepting the embrace but returning it. And if Eggsy had any doubts about whether or not this was real and very mutual, they're laid to rest with that hug.

He's just wondering what they do now when his stomach gurgles. Loudly.

Harry huffs a little in amusement while Eggsy flushes. "Fuck," he swears. "Sorry." Talk about ruining the mood.

"Don't apologise," Harry says. He sits up, not exactly breaking their hug but close enough for Eggsy to get the hint and let go of him. "I suppose it's my fault for taking you to that ghastly pub."

"It was a bit gross," Eggsy admits.

"Yes," Harry says. He inhales deeply then looks at Eggsy. "I don't keep the pantry I used to, but I'm sure there's enough in there for us to put together a decent meal." His voice rises ever so slightly, turning it into a question.

"Yeah," Eggsy says without hesitation. He really is hungry, especially now that his empty stomach has brought it to his attention. "Let's do that."

Harry relaxes and smiles, and it strikes Eggsy all over again how nervous Harry is, so oddly (so touchingly) insecure. Like Harry is sitting there worrying that anything he says or does might drive Eggsy away.

"Hey," Eggsy says. 

Caught in the middle of throwing back the covers, Harry freezes.

Eggsy sets a hand on Harry's shoulder, leans in and kisses his cheek. "I'm not going anywhere, okay?"

Harry goes very still, his gaze fixed on the dark blue comforter.

"Well," Eggsy amends, "except to the kitchen. And then back up here. Or wherever. All I'm saying is, you got me, Harry. You got me."

Harry kind of slumps, all the tension draining from him at once. He turns toward Eggsy and gives him one of those warm smiles, the kind that makes his dimples show. "Thank you, Eggsy."

Their kiss is light, sweet. It's nothing compared to the lightness singing in Eggsy's heart. 

"Now," Harry says. He gets off the bed, his tone brisk, his posture once again that of a gentleman confident in himself. "I can't guarantee a four-star meal, but I'm fairly certain I have bacon and eggs."

Eggsy grins as he stands up. "Sounds great."

They head downstairs and into the kitchen. Eggsy doesn't even notice the bare walls this time, or the lack of personal stuff. He's only interested in Harry and the first meal they're going to make together. 

The first of many.

*******

When Roxy comes up a few days later, Eggsy gives her the grand tour of the distillery. They end up in Harry's office, talking softly so as not to disturb Harry while he's in a meeting with Champ. Without his glasses, Eggsy can't see Champ, so it looks amusingly like Harry is just talking to thin air. 

"It really looks good," Roxy says. "And so do you." She gives him a knowing smile.

"Yeah," Eggsy says. He's beaming and he knows it – and he doesn't give a fuck. All that sex and being in love will do that to a person.

Roxy looks around the office with interest. "Oh," she says. She points to a framed photograph on the corner table, next to the silver coffee service. It's a selfie, a pretty good one too, if Eggsy says so himself. Both he and Harry are sitting in the same armchair, his arm around Harry while they smile for the camera. "That's awfully cute."

Eggsy catches Harry's eye across the office and winks, then looks meaningfully at the picture. Harry sees, and though his conversation with Champ never falters, he smiles at Eggsy.

"Yeah," Eggsy says. "But you should see the ones we got hanging up at home."


End file.
